Yesterday, I drank well over a pint of water, lugged my unhappy bladder into the filthiest taxi I’ve ever sat in and went to the hospital. Two signs on the England-flag-emblazoned glass separating the driver from me warned me that a £75 fine would be due should I soil the vehicle. Honestly, I’m not sure what difference my spit-up, or any other soiling materials for that matter, would have added to the mix.

I’d decided to take a taxi because the thought of waddling across Bristol, ready to burst, oddly did not appeal. For our dating scan I’d drunk what felt like my day’s allowance, only to be informed that my bladder was only just full enough and that it would need to be “well and truly full” for the next scan to work. So I wasn’t taking any chances. The lads’ night out taxi I’d taken managed to hit every bump on the way but I was so excited about seeing the baby that I managed to see the humour in this even if my bladder didn’t.

The minutes that the sonographer was delayed in calling us dragged on and just as I was about to unbutton my jeans for a little relief (how easily I’ve been able to allow myself to do things like this without feeling the least bit undignified) she called my name. Laurence had met me at the hospital during his lunch hour. He now jumped out of his seat, striding off with my maternity notes as if he was the one carrying the uterus.

As I lay on my back (these days my most uncomfortable position – it feels like someone is lying on my spine), unzipped my jeans and let the woman rub warm goo all over my stomach, I got the familiar panic that she wouldn’t find anything. I’d already had a dating scan and listened to the baby’s heartbeat at a midwife appointment but still it was there. What if this somehow isn’t real? What if my imagination has managed to manufacture all the signs of pregnancy like Mary I?

But then, as the creature came into view I was hit with altogether different worry. What if something’s wrong? Previously I’d had to keep reminding myself that the scan was primarily to check on the baby’s health and not just some fun way for us to see the baby and know the sex. Now I could think of nothing but, “What if I’ve done something wrong?” Relief washed over me every time the sonographer said that everything was fine.

It became obvious that Laurence was enjoying the experience far more than I. He kept “ahing” and chuckling and whenever I looked over at him, his eyes were filled with wonder. To be honest, I generally didn’t know what I was looking at until told. It could have been because I’m just not as visual as he is or perhaps it was because, between being jabbed in a bladder threatening to empty itself and the sudden rush of worry, I was a tad distracted.

While sitting up and wiping myself off, it was hard to remember that the person we’d seen on screen, who definitely looks like a baby and not alien spawn, was actually inside me. She’s (most likely) a healthy girl and definitely an energetic wriggler. I put down the tissue, zipped up my jeans, thought about how cool it would be to raise a woman and dashed off to pee.

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Laurence hates that I call our unborn child “the creature”. It apparently sounds like something gooey and mean out of Alien vs. Predator, nothing cuddly, cute or even human. First he suggested “critter” as a reasonable compromise but I inconveniently wouldn’t have it on the basis of it conjuring up the cast of Bambi for me, not at all reflecting the strangeness on my insides. Finally, he gave up and has taken to calling the baby “boo”, wincing whenever I refer to “the creature”.

I fully expect my heart to break with joy at the sight of someone so tiny, fragile and, after it’s been given a few days for its features to become un-smooshed, cute. In fact, I already feel a strong connection with the creature. From the day five pregnancy tests confirmed our news (the doctor claimed that was a record) to the sight of that itty bitty heartbeat on the screen to last night when I realised that my protruding belly was taking on a distinctly baby-bump shape, I’ve been in love.

Still, it doesn’t feel like I’m carrying anything remotely cuddly. An alien life-form has taken over my body. Some strange kind of parasite is making my breasts so painful I have to stop in my tracks and tell myself to breathe when I’m at the supermarket. I was ready for the morning sickness (got it), the exhaustion (boy did I get it), even the varicose veins which run in my family but thankfully haven’t hit me yet. Instead, I’m vividly dreaming that I’m a hunted witch, spending more of my bedtime hours awake than asleep and suddenly finding that no seated position is comfortable. These things I hadn’t bargained for.

What is it with the creature? Does it not know that mummy needs to sleep in order to earn a living so we can pay for luxuries like rent and indoor heating? No, the creature is wrapped up warm in my innards and doesn’t notice the sub-zero temperatures we’re dealing with outside. And, on the subject of “what is it with”, why on earth does the creature like lemons so much? My lips are dry and sore with biting into them but nowadays they taste better than Phish-food ice-cream.

The name-calling thing seems to me to be part of the pressure on women to find pregnancy the most wonderful experience of their lives. Ever ever ever. Of course, I’m not going to deny that on one level this is true. Carrying another human life inside you for months and months, physically preparing it to meet the world is, as ideas go, pretty cool.

But it’s hard. And when women do admit to having a rough time, they usually share their war stories of 36-hour labours and how many times they vomited in the car park at ASDA with glints of glee in their eyes. There’s a kind of pride attached to suffering for their little bean or bump (I knew one woman who called hers ‘bubble’) that I find nothing short of bizarre.

Let’s call pregnancy what it is, wonderful but inconceivably weird, beautiful and, at times, a frightful, yucky but necessary experience. And, in that vein, let’s lose the overly-cutesy nicknames for our fetuses.

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Hello hello! I'm Adele. You've arrived at my little piece of the internet where I blog about family life, home educating, creative living and anything else that feels like it fits. I'm a Trini mother and writer living in Cornwall, UK with my husband Laurence and our three kids.

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